


Concentrate

by days4daisy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Chocolate Box Treat, First Meetings, Illusions, M/M, Magic-Users, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pleasure Obedience Disks, Power Dynamics, Selfcest, Thor: Ragnarok (2017)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-10 11:13:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13500646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: The stranger is reading a book and sipping something that looks suspiciously like water.“I wasn’t aware my parties were this boring,” the Grandmaster says.





	Concentrate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gonergone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonergone/gifts).



> A treat for you, gonergone. I agree that this pair needs more illusions pwp :D Enjoy!

The Grandmaster senses something.

He may not be a collector of oddities like his brother, but he likes interesting. He’s built his kingdom on it, perplexities as far as the eye can see. The Grandmaster knows when his presence is graced by something...different.

The Grandmaster does not lack for pretty things to look at. Sakaar's elite wear things to seem interesting. They polish themselves, style their hair, work into magnificent shape.  He likes pretty things, he really does, but, sometimes pretty is _boring_. It’s not their fault he's older than they can fathom. They’re trying to sate him, and they’re so sweet, bending themselves to his needs. It's just not enough to excite him; he likes to be tantalized, riveted!

He sniffs the air. Something is certainly intriguing today. It's not the lovely mull of his wine or spice on the skin of a passing Kree beauty. No, it's something else.  _Magic_.

The Grandmaster shifts through the crowd, “Hey - hey, how you doin’,” smiles, and nods to his adoring public. Normally, he would mingle. It’s the point of this lovely lounge, red and shiny. Today, it’s filled by all the Grandmaster’s favorites. He’s put together a fine collection of pets. So many pretty faces, smiling and happy, dancing, kissing, drinking, relaxed.

The scent is stronger here.

The Grandmaster sips from his chalice and casually scans the room. No, no, nope - ah, _there_. On one of the white loveseats, fine leather, quite soft.

A Xandarian is speaking animatedly - burly thing, oh, what was his name? Kitch? Katch? _Ketch_ , that’s it. His mouth didn’t leave much of an impression on the Grandmaster, but his body is nice, particularly in today's mesh.

Beside him sits a person the Grandmaster does not recognize. A slender fellow, black hair, form-fixed green and black clothes. Not much color to the skin, but interesting green eyes.

The Grandmaster frowns. Someone in Security needs a reminder to be more thorough. The Grandmaster won't be  _too_ firm, just ‘Hey, you know, letting strangers in here without my permission - let’s not do that, mmkay?’

Or maybe he’ll melt one of the guards as an example. Decisions. He’ll think about it.

For now, he’s more interested in the green haze around this mystery. The stranger smiles and speaks vibrantly, but he is very much not present. An _illusion_ , how fun!

The Xandarian is none the wiser. Simple thing, his species. The Grandmaster smiles. Simple things are worth keeping around once in awhile. The Grandmaster doesn’t often choose to use his true power, but it’s fun to be reminded of how much stronger he is than them.

The Grandmaster drains his chalice. It is plucked from his grasp and replaced quickly by a new one, gold with a rim of emeralds. Green, what do you know? It's a sign.

The Grandmaster’s search comes to an end at the back bar. He’d forgotten all about this section, tucked out of view of the main sprawl. Stepping into it, the Grandmaster remembers why. Unfinished. As he rounds the corner, his frenzy of color changes to black. Black tiles, black walls, a counter of black marble, gold edging along black wood. Black leather-bound bar seats. The bartender here, Zopal, has skin like space, the purest black flecked with star-white.

His magic pal occupies a seat at the counter. Unlike his illusion, his hair is tied in a loose tail. The Grandmaster sees light scratches on his cheek. Bruises litter his neck, purpling pink on frost. The stranger is reading a book and sipping something that looks suspiciously like water.

“I wasn’t aware my parties were this boring,” the Grandmaster says. His sandaled feet click across black tiles. So little _color_. He shudders.

His new friend lifts his head and regards him with interest. “Grandmaster,” he says after a moment. “It’s nice to make your acquaintance.”

The Grandmaster tries to place the accent. Pleasant, if a bit haughty. What's the name of that realm with the one-eyed king and the daughter sweet on murder? Asland, right? Asworld?

The Grandmaster helps himself to the seat beside his stranger. “Is it nice?” he presses. “People don’t, ah, hide back here if they're happy.” The Grandmaster keeps his voice light, but his eyes stay fixed on the newcomer. Will his confidence fold? Or will he tremble in fear - the Grandmaster likes a good quiver.

His new friend does neither. He offers a vague smile instead. “It’s a lovely party,” he says. “I’ve only recently arrived on your world, and I was afraid my presence would be a bit...dull. I hope I haven’t offended.”

“Lucky for you, I'm not easily offended.” The Grandmaster glances at his friend's simple glass. “But I want my guests to have a good time. Refusing my drinks? That doesn't- I've gotta say, it doesn’t rub me the right way.”

His stranger starts to reply, but Zopal speaks first. “No units,” he says.

The Grandmaster scowls and waves a dismissive hand. “What’s a few units? Come on, Zopal! Give him something fun. Fizzy, not too sweet. You know what I mean.”

Zopal nods, and the Grandmaster smiles expectantly at his new friend. Thin lips curve in response. “Thank you, Grandmaster,” he says, “for your generosity.”

So polite! The Grandmaster leans in, lured, elbow propped on the counter. “So,” he asks, “you got a name?”

“Loki,” he says. Easy and memorable, the Grandmaster finds it suiting.

Zopal places a glass in front of Loki, a creamy fizz flecked with blue and green. With a nod at the Grandmaster, Zopal takes his leave, and the Grandmaster watches his new friend sip. He’s the type who closes his eyes when he swallows. Fetching.

“Good huh?” the Grandmaster enthuses. “Zopal doesn’t have much character, but he mixes a mean drink. I need to have him work front bar more often. I’m telling you, I forgot all about this place!”

“It’s much different from the rest,” Loki agrees. A strand of his hair has fallen loose from his tie. A mistake, perhaps, or a fine party trick? The Grandmaster is used to people trying to earn his interest, but few are so shrewd in the act.

The Grandmaster sips from his chalice. “Hmm,” he smiles, giving his lips a pointed lick, “so what’s the deal with the illusions? You staking the place out?”

Here, for sure, he expects some note of surprise. A slip of Loki’s smile, a widening of his eyes.

Loki only chuckles and ducks his head sheepishly. “It’s a bit juvenile, I know. This is all very new, and it’s easier to get to know a place from all angles.” He raises his gaze. “I do hope I haven’t offended, Grandmaster. I meant no harm.”

Aw, the guy thinks he can harm him! The Grandmaster laughs with delight. “Not at all! I’m glad you did, it helped me find you. The rest won't know, we don’t have many, ah, sensitives here. But you’ve got a trace to you. The strings lead right back.”

Loki nods, as if he’s known this. “I had a feeling you would catch on,” he admits. “If you’d like, I’ll pull them back.”

“And ruin what I’m sure are fun chats?” The Grandmaster shakes his head. “No, no. Let your little friends work. On one condition.” Loki does not ask, but he lifts a brow.

The Grandmaster folds Loki's hand  between his own. “You tell me any juicy gossip your buddies hear,” he says in a stage whisper. “It'll be our secret, mm'kay?"

“Gladly,” Loki says. His fingers twitch between the Grandmaster’s.

Pleased with this arrangement, the Grandmaster releases his hand. “Finish that,” he says, motioning towards Loki’s glass. “We don’t do the whole skulking in shadows thing here. Have some fun, Loki! Live a little!”

He removes himself with a smile, reveling in the first hint of surprise on Loki's face.

***

The party ends, as all of the Grandmaster’s affairs, in a spill of booze and bodies. Kisses, moans, and candle wax down skin of all shades. A kaleidoscope of debauchery that ends in piles of tangled limbs.

Those of the Grandmaster’s court take their leave with their choice of late night entertainment. Those without such sanctuary find refuge on couches, chairs, and the floor. A gentle snore rumbles through the cluttered remains.

The Grandmaster steps between sprawled legs and takes in the view with gladness. Pleasure is a beautiful thing. The Grandmaster loves sex; he loves other people having it, and he loves having it most of all! But it does not affect him as it does these meager things. He doesn’t snore in love-struck stupors or bask blindly in a partner’s touch.

When the Grandmaster finds his new friend still dressed and untouched, though, he feels pleasure of a different kind. Had Loki chosen to participate in the evening's revelry, it would not have been a deal breaker, but the Grandmaster likes him. When he likes something he prefers to have the first taste.

Loki sits on the floor, his back against the leg of a chair. Before him, floor-to-ceiling glass walls expose the lights of Sakaar. Pillars of color break the night sky, pinks and oranges. The largest takes up half the horizon, a vortex to other realms, if one knows how to navigate it. The Grandmaster does, few others do.

Loki’s closed eyes do not fool the Grandmaster. Still, he's sweet, a soft expression for his loose pieces of hair to frame. The scratches on his cheek are a lovely apple red.

The Grandmaster helps himself to the chair Loki leans against. Loki gives up the act; his eyes stay closed, but he offers a smile.

“You have dirt for me?” the Grandmaster asks.

“Yes,” Loki replies, voice an enticing rumble. “Quite juicy indeed.”

“What are we talking here? I’m sure none of my lovelies would ever do me wrong...”

“Depends on your definition of wrong.” Loki looks up at the Grandmaster. He has the prettiest eyes. “The Xandarian Ketch has the access code to your aged whiskey stockroom. Only used, he says, for special occasions.”

“It never was my favorite of the spirits,” the Grandmaster muses. “At least it’s going to good use. What else you got?”

“Silly things. An affair between dancers at your Satin Lounge. The doorman is quite cross about the whole arrangement. Also, a borrowing of units from your party ships to supply added decoration to your champion’s gala. They all spoke much of this champion.”

“The main event here,” the Grandmaster tells him, smiling. “You’ll see, if you stick around long enough.”

“Hm,” Loki says, and tilts his head. “Do you care about match fixing on your fight cards?”

The Grandmaster frowns. “What?”

“Match fixing,” Loki repeats. “In partnership with the gamblers. Not often, from what I was told. A way to make a few units here and there.”

“Who was that?” the Grandmaster asks. “Not Ketch.”

“Oh no. Ketch is far too pleasant.” Loki’s eyes shift thoughtfully. “Pretty thing. Purple hair down her back. Darling? Dar-”

“Darla?” The Grandmaster shakes his head. “Aw, what a shame. I liked Darla.”

Loki raises a brow. “You’ll give her a talking to?”

The Grandmaster smiles. “I’ll give her something. Later, though. Thank you, you - Loki, you’re impressive! A real speaker. You know how to get people to play your game, don't you?”

“At times,” Loki says. His expression is pleasant.

Abruptly, the Grandmaster decides to test him. “Your hair,” he says. “I think I want it down. You mind?”

Loki pulls the tie out of his hair without hesitation, a gentle dip where the band was. The Grandmaster hooks fingers into it, and Loki closes his eyes again.

“No one caught your eye tonight?" the Grandmaster asks. "Not even Ketch?”

Loki chuckles. “Nothing against a bit of fun, Grandmaster. But, as I told you, I’m new here. I fear my participation would have been lacking.”

Quite the interesting yarn. Like a cat, the Grandmaster plays on. “I’d like to see it next time. You and Ketch, maybe. He’s a big guy, you know. Not the brightest, but he’s got the body working for him.”

Loki makes a pensive sound, as if he has a choice in the matter. It's cute, his whole perception of control. Maybe the Grandmaster  _will_ give Loki a choice, based on how entertaining his answer is. He isn’t a cruel dictator, after all. A dictator, sure, but not _cruel_ , and Loki has already proven to be useful.

Darla. A shame. The Grandmaster will be sad to melt her. And, by 'sad' he means he’ll remember her for a second before she becomes one with the others who made bad choices on Sakaar.

“Ketch is lovely,” Loki says, “but I’m afraid he’s too like my brother. Big and dull-witted. It would be...difficult.”

A worthy answer; it makes the Grandmaster laugh. “Your brother! Now, isn’t that something? You’ve got a brother? And he looks like Ketch? How the heck does that work?”

“A complicated family tree,” Loki replies. The words carry an edge. “It doesn’t matter. He’s dead, I think.” He sniffs, and something twitches in his face.

“I’ve got a brother,” the Grandmaster says, and Loki’s eyes return to him. “Total weirdo, that one. A hoarder too, oh man. You should see the guy’s place. Dreadful. No color scheme. But hey, he’s family.”

Loki’s mouth curls. “Yes,” he says, “family.” The Grandmaster isn’t sure what he’s seeing. Is Loki sad? Pissed off? What an interesting thing.

“Make one of those extra you’s,” the Grandmaster says. “I didn’t get to see one up close, come on.”

Loki looks at him a moment, weighing the request. Like he has the choice to refuse, poor thing.

Casting a look about, Loki opens his hand. The Grandmaster smells his energy as sweet as he sees it. In a flash of green, Loki's solidness splits into a second being. This Loki stands before the seated Grandmaster, a shimmering visage. He has no scratches on his face, the Grandmaster notes, or bruises on his neck. The double smiles in anticipation of his evaluation.

The Grandmaster's fingers sift through the projection like combing the surface of a pond. “Wonderful,” the Grandmaster says. “Do you feel when I do that?”

“It’s a projection,” Loki's double says. It gazes down at the Grandmaster like an instructor offering lessons.

“Yeah, sure, a projection,” the Grandmaster muses. “But it’s, ah, it's an extension of your energy. Your - wherever your magic comes from.” Both Lokis look at him with interest. “Someone with the right, you know, tools, could ah - could, see-”

The Grandmaster takes the projection’s hand. It is solid for him to take, by his choice. Not by Loki's.

The projection gapes, and its true self gapes too. Loki looks at his own hand in his lap. He squeezes it, and the projection squeezes the Grandmaster’s fingers.

“How did you do that?” Loki asks. Is fear, anger, or intrigue most prevalent in his voice? The Grandmaster isn’t sure. He likes all three.

“I have my ways,” the Grandmaster replies cheerfully. “You didn’t- I mean, you knew what you were dealing with, right?”

The projection’s mouth rests open in surprise. “I know you’re quite powerful, yes. But this - I’ve known no one who could do this so easily.”

“Well, now you know me, Loki.” The Grandmaster smiles and takes the projection’s other hand. What a pretty thing, both of them. “And I’m getting to know you. Why don’t you try it? Make it come to me as you would.”

“As I would,” Loki echoes. The Grandmaster detects a hint of playfulness.

The copy moves to the chair, its transparency straddling the Grandmaster’s waist. Like a ghost, lithe, long torso and longer neck, shoulders spilled by that lovely black mane. It solidifies slowly, filling the Grandmaster's lap with pleasant weight.

The Grandmaster glances down at the spell's owner. Loki is smiling, vaguely amused. Pretty, but not what the Grandmaster is after.

“Mmm, yes,” the Grandmaster praises. “Good. It’s just the concentration. It’s different, it’s gotta - it has to come from another part of your brain, like - here.”

He cups hands low on the back and hears a gasp. The copy in his lap now feels very real indeed. It is more than simple flesh. Its legs shiver from the stretch of its obscene leather slacks. The body warms under its far-too-thin tunic.

“Oh,” Loki’s voice at his feet is quiet. “Yes. Wonderful.”

“Mmhm,” the Grandmaster agrees. “How 'bout a kiss? Give it a whirl. You’re a quick learner.”

The projection tilts its head, as if waiting for its owner’s agreement. After a puzzled moment, it smiles, a tip of curious lips.

The Grandmaster purrs approval when he feels the kiss. Warm, wet as a mouth should be. He snakes a hand into the copy’s hair, holding the face to him.

An unsteady sigh draws the Grandmaster's attention. He glances at Loki on the floor. His fingers press against his mouth, rubbing absently. The projection shudders in mirrored pleasure.

Very nice. The Grandmaster drags a hand down the body of the sham. He squeezes between its legs firmly.

The copy stutters between solid and ghost. It’s worth the utterly filthy moan at his feet.

The Grandmaster grins. “Concentration, see? Concentration is key.”

“I know how to concentrate,” Loki says. If not for his startled tremor, he would sound sour. “You’re not playing fair.”

“Harsh!” the Grandmaster says to the offended glare of his new friend. Loki is a feisty thing. Under different circumstances, the Grandmaster would find his struggle wearisome. But in this case, the temper is rather...attractive.

“How about I show you what it means to concentrate, hmm?” The Grandmaster waves a lazy hand.

The projection in his lap vanishes completely, funneling in a rush back to its owner. Loki hisses surprise and stares as his own hand accepts the copy.

When he looks back at the Grandmaster, irritation creases his brow. There is also a glint of heat in his eyes; undeniable, gorgeous desire.

“I like you, Loki,” the Grandmaster says. “People I like don’t sleep on the floor in a room like this.”

Loki breathes a laugh. “Do people you like sleep at all?” he asks.

“What a mouth on you! It’s fun, it really is.” The Grandmaster grabs Loki’s chin abruptly. Loki startles at the touch, eyes wide. For the first time, a flit of concern crosses his face. “No,” the Grandmaster adds, “they don't, to be honest with you.”

“Oh,” Loki replies, stunned. “Alright.”

“Is it? Alright, I mean?” The Grandmaster eases his grip enough to scratch a thumb on Loki’s chin. Loki’s mouth pops open in delicious surprise. “You can say no,” he says, a mild afterthought. The Grandmaster is not used to offering the choice, but he _does_ like this one. Maybe more than he realized.

“I, ah,” Loki sucks in a breath, and nods in the Grandmaster’s hand. “Yes. Sure.”

“Good choice. Good, good.” The Grandmaster smiles. In a blink, they go.

***

The Grandmaster is beginning to try his new friend’s patience. The more the Grandmaster tries it, the more fun he has.

Two projections kneel at the Grandmaster’s sides on his bed, a grand thing built for twenty. (He’s overdue for a proper orgy.)

With the click of a button, the copies flutter, hands ghosting away from the Grandmaster's robes.

“Concentrate,” the Grandmaster chides. He places the controller on the bed in favor of cupping Loki’s face. Their kiss is broken by unsteady curses. Loki's face is flushed like he’s run a fever, powder blue paint smearing his chin.

It’s his mouth that is most delicious, though. So much redder now that it’s been properly kissed and wet from the Grandmaster’s tongue. Loki tries for a snarl, lips curled in such offense that the Grandmaster can’t help but laugh. He combs fingers into Loki’s hair. Loki blinks at him, dazed. He's angry, and he's getting desperate.

The gentle buzz of the disk pinched to Loki's spine makes his whole body thrum. The Grandmaster’s fingers tingle nicely just by touching him. “You’re not...playing...fair…” Loki grits.

My, how he struggles. A fighter! If he had a bit more meat on him, the Grandmaster would consider him for the ring. He’s sure Loki would acquit himself. Not against the champion, no, but anyone else? Loki would scrape by on cunning alone if he had to.

The Grandmaster uses obedience disks to keep the help in line. A bit of gentle persuasion, no big deal. He has his own special device for a kinder reward. The disk Loki reluctantly consented to wear pulses relentless warmth across his nerves.

It helps that Loki seems a sensitive thing, odd for a pretty one like him. From the first touch of the Grandmaster’s hand, he’s seemed a bit...uncertain. His earlier playfulness has receded into something far more cautious.

Loki is a sight stripped, cock already hard without a touch. Every shudder of the pleasure disk rocks his hips and makes his shaft twitch. He’s begun to leak, poor dear. His body is deliciously blushed, pink blossoming on his chest and neck, snaking down from his navel.

The Grandmaster clicks the device off. Loki blows out a weak breath. “Try again,” he says.

Loki blinks, his eyes a haze. It takes him a moment to be able to lift his hands.

His fingers are quivering when his illusions appear. They are equally naked but far more composed. Eager, smiling, they resume their task of removing the Grandmaster's clothes.

As they work, Loki busies himself with the Grandmaster's pants and sits close to steal his lips again. He is a good kisser - no surprise, his mouth is his most delightful quality. The Grandmaster bites at sore lips, indulging in the gasps Loki is trying so hard not to make. He scratches a thumb over the scars on his cheek. Loki groans, no dissent to the pain.

The Grandmaster runs hands up Loki’s chest. His thumbs seek out his nipples, pebbled red and stiff. Loki hisses against his mouth. The Grandmaster kisses his grit teeth, and the decoys at his sides blow shaking breaths.

Loki sighs into his mouth. His body is so slender, with its interesting scars and things. A blade right through the chest? Wide as an ax, what a trick! Burn marks here and there, and an odd white dagger line on his side. The projections are blemishless, and the Grandmaster smiles. He has a weakness for vanity, especially wrapped in a package lovely as this.

The Grandmaster considers a spell to force Loki to recite the tale of every scar. It would be fun to hunt every last cause and disintegrate them before his new friend's eyes.

The Grandmaster reigns the thoughts with a chuckle. This one is rare, he can tell. But he can't spoil a new pet too quickly.

Casually, the Grandmaster flicks the disk switch. Loki moans and scabs at his chest. The copies latch teeth and fingers onto the Grandmaster for balance. Loki’s waist spasms. He gasps out desperate sounds, barely audible “Ah- _ah-_!” The copies sway and shiver in and out of existence.

“My,” the Grandmaster chuckles, “that mind of yours needs work-”

He drifts, surprised, when Loki lunges away from him without warning. Instead, he grabs the nearest of his projections. The unchosen fades, leaving only one. This one, Loki kisses violently. They claw hands into each other’s hair, they moan, they hiss. They run fingers down each other’s bodies, thighs together, cocks blushed with need.

The Grandmaster wasn’t expecting this. Every once in awhile, he loves getting things he doesn't expect.

“Now who isn’t playing fair, huh?” the Grandmaster teases.

“Shut that thing off,” Loki says, like he has the authority to demand anything.

The Grandmaster comes to them, his new friend and the lovely double. He sweeps back their hair, nuzzles his face into their mingled breaths. They taste similar, their mouths matching red and sore. “Now why would I do that, hm?”

Loki shudders, and two seconds later the projection follows. They tighten grips on each other, Loki’s eyes warring between remaining open or shut. “Can’t,” he whispers, shaking.

“Hey now, we don’t like that word here.” The Grandmaster cups Loki’s cheek and forces him to turn. His eyes are blown wide. At this forced attention, the projection withers in a breath of green smoke. “Sakaar doesn’t do limitations.”

“Of- of course.” The longer the vibration continues, the more distracted his new friend becomes. Loki’s eyes drift, glassy, face pink and mouth open. His spine is straight, and his cock twitches.

The Grandmaster chuckles and flicks the device off. Loki’s tension unwinds on a stuttering gasp.

“Lie down,” he says. Loki’s pleasure-wracked body stumbles to comply. “Oh, and bring back the one you picked. Looks like you liked that illusion best.”

***

The Grandmaster likes Loki. This isn’t one he tosses away after a single use. This is one he wants to savor. Breaking him will be half the fun.

Loki’s masterful tongue does not seem to be working. He’s on his back, eyes dark and wild. His body bridges when he’s provoked, and he claws at the bedsheets.

The Grandmaster buries fingers inside him. His hole is nice and soft, slicked with oil and stretched. It’s become quite greedy now that it’s prepared, slippery sounds of his fingers moving in and back. The Grandmaster thrusts deep again, and Loki loses his breath, hips jutting into the mouth all the way down on his cock.

The double remains solid, bobbing its head on its master. Loki's cock is so lovely, glossed by its mouth.

“Grandmaster,” Loki hisses.

“Oh right, yeah.” He removes his fingers with a final pop. His hole is gaping and oiled, and Loki trembles at the loss. His copy sits back and smiles at the ready. A quick learner indeed.

The Grandmaster peels the pleasure disk off Loki’s neck. It pops off at the press of a button, and Loki sighs his relief, his “thank you” little more than a breath.

“Let him watch,” the Grandmaster says. He settles himself between Loki’s thighs. The projection stares obediently, eyes sharp and hungry.

The Grandmaster could go slow, but where’s the fun in that?

Loki gasps at the sudden fill, and his hips buck beneath the Grandmaster’s thrust. His knees split wide, waist rocked up to meet him. Their skin claps together, the Grandmaster’s hand on Loki’s stomach for balance. He feels the smear of Loki’s cock against his skin. Loki’s eyes sink shut a moment, then snap open, dark and wild.

His projection is looking down at the disk tapped onto its chest. “Concentrate,” the Grandmaster says. He flips the switch.

Just as the Grandmaster thought, Loki seems to feel the disk's effects _stronger_ this way. Loki convulses with a startled whine, shuddering and twisting. The Grandmaster fills him through it, weighing him into the mattress. Loki tosses his head back. He squeezes his eyes shut, he cries out. It feels incredible! He’s so wild, thrashing about, completely entranced.

Except, the projection remains. Flesh and blood, it moans and writhes at the Grandmaster’s side. Its hands flicker, but it still reaches for its own erection, needing a touch, even its own ghost fingers.

Inspired, the Grandmaster’s lubed fingers curl around Loki’s cock. He manages a slurred, “Nnnn-” when the Grandmaster pumps him. His whole body spasms, he gasps and grabs at his own hair.

The illusion does not fade.

Loki buries his face against a curled fist. He thrashes and arches. His cock seems to pulse in the Grandmaster’s hand. The desperate breaths of the projection bow against the Grandmaster’s shoulder. It bites the skin, groans into it.

This is better than the Grandmaster could have hoped for. He already has nifty ideas for next time, but - even better - the fantasies are falling apart based on _now_. It isn’t often that the Grandmaster is so pleased that he gets to give up his thoughts for a few moments of enjoyment.

“Ah,” Loki hisses. His head swivels left then right. Eyes squeezed and mouth tense as the projection stutters and blips. He grasps for words, all frustrated consonants, so _tense_ , so _determined_! The Grandmaster fists his cock unhelpfully, smearing Loki's own wetness into his oil slicked skin.

“Damn it- ihh-” The projection dims.

Loki looks beautiful. He looks done. The Grandmaster waves a hand, and the projection disappears. Immediately, Loki’s final shard of control shatters.

It’s - wow. It’s like Loki hasn’t come in years. It’s a storm that announces itself in silence, a hiss from Loki the only sign before the dam breaks. He collapses in a mess of tremors and torn bed sheets. A pulse of energy rattles the mattress and shivers through the Grandmaster’s belly. His release drags out of him, milking onto his own stomach, relentless.

The Grandmaster sighs in delight and...orgasms. He doesn't decide to, he just does. It's a gentle breach, a grunt and roll of his hips, spilling into the wiry heat of his new friend.

No offense to the Grandmaster's long, _long_ list of lovers, but mortals don’t...do it for him really. He enjoys sex, but he never gets off unless he wills it. Until now, apparently. The Grandmaster's body is strange and heavy. Rare.  _Fantastic_.

In his sex-giddy haze, the Grandmaster decides that Loki will be given the open room down the hall. Tomorrow, Loki will go to the Grandmaster's tailor and have proper clothes fitted for him. Zopal will serve him personally at every event. Whatever else he wants - wine, food, units? He’ll have it, he'll have everything.

And he'll stay. As long as the Grandmaster wants him, he'll stay right here.

Loki's eyelids hang low, breaths whistling between parted lips. His body is stained in sweat and seed, hair matted to his cheeks.

“Oh, I like you,” the Grandmaster sighs. He eases out, and Loki shivers through every inch’s departure. He’s so wet and open, it’s tempting to toy with him. Return with his fingers and let them be swallowed by his impossibly loose body.

Another time. The Grandmaster wants to lie down, how funny! He's weighed down by this natural orgasmic state.

It takes work to tug Loki next to him. Loki fits against him bonelessly, his breaths still shaking.

“Think I’ll keep you around,” the Grandmaster says.

“Mmm,” Loki agrees. Is he agreeing? It's difficult to tell.

The Grandmaster kisses his hair. It’s not like Loki has a choice, but he would prefer to think that he's happy about this development. The Grandmaster decides to assume so for now, at least until his new friend is capable of speaking again.

*The End*


End file.
